The Crimson Song
by Litrouke
Summary: ARES. A collection of drabbles and oneshots about the manhwa Ares. Rated for occasional swearing and yaoi.
1. Trick or Treat

Prompt #87: Trick or Treat

Disclaimer: Ares and all related characters/scenarios/crapit pies belong to Ryu Kum Chel.

* * *

"Michael…help me…"

Wide, pathetically tearful eyes beseeched Michael, as the owner of the eyes tugged incessantly on his sleeve.

"Oi…oi, Michael…"

Ares sighed dramatically, throwing himself onto the ground next to Michael. He then settled into a comfortable position – namely, with his full weight resting against the other boy's back.

"Seriously, Michael, will you freaking help me out? I got the crappiest lunch, like, ever, and I know you got in line before me- I saw you! So you must've got something good, right? What'd you get? C'mon, Michael, they were out of every single freaking thing by the time I got to the front! Hey, you're not even listening, you dumbass! You're supposed to share with your friends, selfish little bastard!!"

Michael didn't even glance in the howling boy's direction, intently focused on the half-devoured hamburger in his hands. "Should've been faster."

"What?! Are you kidding! It's not my fault they let the A-ranks go first!!! Michaaaael!" Ares beat his fists halfheartedly against the boy's shoulder before collapsing onto Michael's back with the desperation of a man condemned to the guillotine.

"Please…" he sniffled, before snapping upright when someone else caught his eye. "Baroona! Tell him! Tell Michael he has to gimme some food!"

The hastily recruited accomplice made a questioning sound and cast a languid glance towards the pair. He skimmed over the fuming Ares to study instead the self-absorbed Michael, whose hamburger was now definitely more than half-devoured. All the while, Baroona's expression remained distinctly, almost painfully, blank and neutral.

"Hm."

Ares' visible eye twitched at the lack of sympathy from his so-called 'friend'. "I'm gonna kill you bo-"

"Ares, didn't you already steal extra food after breakfast?" Baroona asked with perfect disinterest, unwrapping his own hamburger. "I'm pretty sure I saw some new grease stains on your travel pack."

Thunderstruck, Ares sputtered something about keeping up strength in battle and stupid, unloyal comrades. In return, Baroona congratulated himself on being kind enough not to point out that they couldn't be unloyal, simply because that word didn't exist.

"Hey now, don't say that about your friends!" Gohu scolded, trotting over to join the trio with a bright smile contrary to the hurt tone of his voice. "Look, if you really don't like what you got for lunch, I'll trade you, ok?"

"Really?" Ares previously tear-filled eyes sparkled with a dangerously ferocious light as he leapt to his feet. Gohu nodded with a little chuckle, peaceably handing over a small box of food.

Clutching the box to his heart like it was some long-last family treasure, Ares beamed at his pal. "You know, for a coward, you're actually a pretty great guy!"

Gohu laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck with a strained smile. Without a word, he bent over and scooted Ares' lunch under his arm. "Yeah, yeah, no problem, Ares!"

Scuttling away from the three, Gohu glanced back once, smile wavering when Ares shot him a big thumbs-up of gratitude.

"See, guys? That's a **real** friend," Ares smirked at the pair, ignoring the fact that neither boy was looking at him, never mind paying attention to the lesson on camaraderie. Plopping down on the grass, Ares gingerly set his hands on either side of the lunch box, savoring the moment with a theatric lick of his lips. With tantalizing slowness, Ares withdrew the lid from the box, delighting in every creak that anticipated the glorious feast within. He triumphantly pulled it off to reveal a tin box devoid of anything more than two crumbs huddled in the corner.

"He- that-** GOHUUUU!**"

The roar echoed throughout the courtyard long after Ares had torn out of the place, stalking after a certain back-stabbing bastard with a gleam in his eye that could not be mistaken for anything other than bloody murder. Meanwhile, Michael carefully packed his trash into a ball then, turned his gaze to Baroona's untouched burger.

"You're sharing that."

Baroona looked the blonde kid squarely in the eye, noting a disturbingly similar appetite for murder in Michael's gaze. He smiled.

"Sure."

* * *

Ares is a Korean manhwa by Ryu Kum Chel. It's ridiculously amazing and spectacular and the art style is so inspiring in its sketchy/slouchy-ness. I love it enough that I'm trying to write 100 prompted drabbles from it. We'll see how it goes.

Reviews, as always, get much love.


	2. Stupid

Prompt #73: Stupid

Disclaimer: I haven't magically gained rights to Ares...yet.

Warnings: Spoilers for the Red-Eyed Swordsman; set sometime after Ares' fight with Cygnus...or thereabouts.

* * *

"_Is it because I saw…__**that**__?"_

* * *

Ares slumped into the alcove, shoving the wooden door into place. When it didn't budge, he jammed it shut with a vicious kick that split the wood, sending a jagged line up the center of the wood like a dark bolt of lightening.

"Stupid door."

He let his head drop back, lanky hair spilling over his shoulders in clumps of stinky, dirt- and sweat-thickened straw. _I smell like a stable._ Not that it mattered, though; the only grand event he had to attend tomorrow was another battle. Then a fight, maybe a couple scuffles, a massacre to mix things up, and a tasteful skirmish to end the day. Thank God Ariadne couldn't smell his stench through the letters – or, at least, he didn't think she could. Maybe he'd ask Michael later. That guy, for all his aloofness, knew a disturbing amount about the world outside of war- never mind all the lectures he could give on war itself.

"Stupid Michael."

Ares consoled himself by lashing out at the wall with a brutal kick. He broke into a rash of coughs a second later when a spray of dust littered the air. The thin plaster layer on the wall had cracked beneath his foot, creating a fine companion for the door's deformity. Ares drew his legs up to his chest and scooted backwards, away from the cracked door and dented wall and outside hallway. He lay his forehead on his knees, wrapping his arms tight around his legs and curling into himself like he hadn't for years. Like he hadn't since…since what?

"Stupid–" he rasped out, breath catching in his chest with the thick clumps of dust and toxic air. "Stupid. Stupid, stupid. All of it. Stupid."

He tried to unfocus – to retreat away from his thoughts, back into the safety of Ariadne and Michael and the Temple Mercenaries. But in everything, all he could see was the past. Reality melted into memory. A memory that had long since ceased to be true recollection, instead dissolving into a phantasmagoria of sneering faces and sightless eyes, haunting images identified by pain, guilt, and helpless rage.

Ares swallowed hard, ignoring the pathetic trembling of his arms and the dry, acidic taste in his mouth. He wanted to puke. _I smell like shit._ He wanted to cry. _I wonder if Ariadne liked her gift._ He wanted to hide, to run, to fight, to kill, to laugh, to forgive, to breathe, to forget to remember his promise. For one stupid day, just one, he wanted to live without a dead Master shadowing his steps.

And yet there it was, sprawled out in front of him, demanding attention like a neglected and rotted corpse.

The Red-Eyed Swordsman- him, **HIM**, the man who killed his Master, the man who took his eye, the man who controlled his life, and–

–and–

No.

There was no and.

There was nothing else. The Swordsman existed; he had been **right there** in front of Ares, but that was the end of it. He couldn't even touch the man's cloak, whereas the warrior kept Ares' destiny in a stranglehold. Those burning eyes – eyes of a murderer, eyes of a **demon** – watched him from the shadows; Ares twice caught the silhouette of the six-sworded killer in the torchlight of an empty temple. And now he had nearly lost his life because of a flicker of familiar cloth in the corner of his eye.

Ares stopped trembling, the savage fire in his gut simmering down to a low, but constant, boil. So it came down to this, huh? _If I don't kill the Red-Eyed Swordsman, his ghost'll destroy me._

"Stupid ghosts."

Ares sighed into his arms before sitting up and stretching, listening with a grim pleasure to the snaps and crackles of his spine.

"Damn! How does that happen when I don't even freakin' **believe** in ghosts," he complained to the tiny storage closet. As he sighed again, reaching his arm back for a proper stretch, Ares could sworn he felt something push at his hair, nudging a few bangs out of place. The boy paused, mid-stretch, before repeating, "Yeah, that's right. I don't believe in that crap."

When no further mystical energies prodded him, Ares nodded with a tired smile and swung his arm back to a natural position. In the process, he managed to upset a bucket two shelves up, causing it to topple from the cabinet and release a vengeful hail of twenty years of dust, dirt, spider webs, insect skeletons, and assorted filth down on his head. Yowling in pain and hacking and sputtering at the foulness swept into his mouth, the boy certainly couldn't have heard a patient, fatherly sigh or the accompanying murmur: "And he calls **us** stupid."

* * *

For the record, Ares is terrible at angsting, even if he has the perfect past for it. Silly kid.


	3. Question

Prompt #58: Question

Disclaimer: Definitely not mine.

Warnings: Language, and vague spoilers and references sprinkled all over the place.

* * *

It's been eighteen years since I retired from the service. I don't make an effort to hide it, but I'm not stupid enough (despite what some people will still tell you) to broadcast it. People find out, though. I'm never really sure how – they just show up, popping up from ground like daisies.

It was flattering at first. Then creepy.

Now it's just annoying.

Anytime people hear I was in That Regiment, the little ones practically bash me to death with their buckets of questions. (By little ones, I mean kids and punks, the scrawny rats and fatherless dogs lying around the city, trying to make a name for themselves. The festering growth in the alleys and dingy half-legitimate shops, the broods of roving youngsters that the Temple Mercenaries exist on.)

The first thing they ask, after they've stared at me long enough, all wide-eyed and knee-deep in awe – the first thing's never about me. Never what was it like, were you there at the massacre, were you an amazing fighter, was the food really that crappy – that's never what they want to hear about. Go figure. The first question, always, is, "Did you know them?"

I used to answer, "Who?", you know, just to humour the kiddos. But after hearing the same names (sometimes one alone, usually all three), I got tired of it. These days, I stay quiet, waiting for them to whisper the magic words.

"Did you know **them** – the Monsters?"

There it is: the sacred, hushed epithet.

"Yeah."

The typical rounds follow, questions gaining volume and excitement with every breath:

"Seriously! You met them!"

"Yeah."

"No way! Did you fight with them?"

"Yeah."

"Oh man, so, like, did you talk to them?"

"Yeah."

"That's so bad-ass!"

"Yeah."

"Damn! Weren't they the best and fucking awesomest fighters in the world?"

I picture them in my mind, every now and then, just to break the monotony. There's Baroona, there's Michael, the two little B-class scrubs holding against forty of the Minos King's royal guards. I remember the blood pouring off them, sweat dying it pink and slick against their skin. And there's Michael's arm slung around Baroona's neck as they stagger out of the room, leaning on each other like twin collapsing towers of cards.

"Yeah."

"I heard none of 'em ever lost a fight! Not a **single** one!"

Ares slouches into the picture, motionless for once, pale and still in shock from the defeat. I could never forget that awful week, the jittery stretch of silence that drove me insane. And then when I finally broke that horrible quietness, I can hear Ares shouting in his face, screaming at Michael, telling him that they could train, they could get better, they could beat the Red-Eyed Swordsman, damnit, don't you dare give up!

"Yeah."

"Man…I don't think they're even human. It's freaking impossible."

And there's the three of them snoring away in the hay, jolting back and forth with the sway of the wagon, just a bunch of lazy, raggedy, and completely carefree boys. I still have that little sketch, so small you can barely tell them apart. Except, of course, for their signature marks of eccentricity.

Leaf, cigarette, half-eaten crapit pie.

"Yeah."

"I wish I could have been there… I swear, I would **kill** to meet them!"

That very last night, the four of us together, laughing and eating and refusing to care about what it meant. Even Michael smiled and even Baroona got drunk and, in the end, even Ares cried.

I look at the crowd of rowdy, unwashed punks snuggled around me, all those bright eyes and eager voices.

"Yeah." I smile at the bloodthirsty little bastard who spoke last. "You'd probably have to."

* * *

Ahh...I really like this one for some reason.

I guess I was feeling nostalgic about the trio. The epithet 'the Monsters' is yanked from the first mission arc, with Sion and Carnival: a mercenary says, "Who would've known we had such monsters within our battalion?" and the thought stuck with me.


	4. Always

Prompt #2: Always

Disclaimer: The usual.

No spoilers, just general silliness.

* * *

"So…you ate a stale crapit pie."

"Nooo!! You don't **understand**!!" the boy wailed miserably, writhing in agony like a noodle having a seizure – and miraculously dodging all attempts to grab him. "It's a disaster! I can't survive without decent food! Without pies, I'll **die**, so pleeease-"

The captain kneaded his temples with one hand, oozing exasperation.

"Someone get this punk outta my sight. **Immediately**."

"We're trying, sir!"

Scowling, the captain glared at the man across the table and tried vainly to ignore the smirk mocking him from behind the haze of smoke.

"I didn't realize your counsel was always in such high demand…" Icarus drawled.

"General Icarus…"

"Yes?"

"Shut your mouth."

* * *

Daily dose of crack. xP I don't think the Captain actually has a name...

The drabble's 111 words long. Because I suck at brevity. Grrr.


	5. Bone

Prompt #8: Bone

Disclaimer: The only thing I can claim is my love for Michael, bastard that he is.

Warnings: Spoilers abounding about Michael. Also, note that the capitalization is extremely purposeful. I don't know why, but it seems he was taught to write like that, and demanded that the oneshot follow suit.

Also, a tiny shred of yaoi - blink and you'll miss it.

* * *

I'm not poetic. Never have been.

I don't see the point of knowing seventy ways to say something's Good, eighty ways to say it's Bad, ninety ways to express Hatred, or one hundred ways to proclaim your Love. I can tell when I like something without rambling about it for pages; I know if a Weapon is useful- the blade balanced, the metal tempered, the point sharpened. That's all I need.

Words only serve to confuse and beguile. The first Peace negotiation I attended was sensible, mostly because the people present were Soldiers and Officers: hard, rough, simple people strengthened by Action rather than weighted down by Philosophy. I remember, distinctly, how simple and rather Puerile the meeting seemed in comparison to Father's Court – a bed of hissing, writhing Serpents, ready to plunge their Fangs deep in my father's Neck. They were all so despicably Eager to poison, to paralyze, to asphyxiate, to hiss lavish praise and extravagant speeches; all this, so that one short-sighted and wholly Egotistical scheme might come to Fruition.

None of that at the meeting. The peace negotiations were brutally concise: General Icarus demanded that the invaders leave Chronos; the Enemy refused just as bluntly, and so Icarus declared War. It made Sense.

Words should be used for Communication, not Embellishment; for Elucidation, not Concealment.

Words are nothing more than a highly developed system of animal grunts and moans, Sounds that could slip just as easily into the pointless gurgle of water or illogical snarl of the wind. There is nothing binding in the monotonous Repetition of these syllables: "I shall serve the Temple Mercenaries, in Life, Death, Mind, Body, and Heart". Nothing holy passed through my lips when I called Ares and Baroona "Comrades". No God, if any exist, struck me down for Betraying those meaningless noises.

I don't care that Ares screams at me about Loyalty and Friendship, because those Words, like all words, are useless. Ideas are hollow if you can't feel them or see them: if you can't look at your Kingdom and **know** Prideby the endless span under your Mastery, won by your Sweat and Blood and Determination; if you can't unsheathe your sword and **know** Honor by the grim acceptance of Mortality in your opponent's eyes.

I can't even remember the words we spoke that very last night, after their pretense at abduction. But when I close my eyes, even now, the rough edges of the Temple roof's shingles press into my back and Baroona's fingers are callused shadows drifting down my chest and Ares' one-eyed reflection stares back at me from Bellisk's Sword. I can taste the tip of a leafy stalk between my lips.

I miss it, but that doesn't bother me. The Memories fuel me; the Knowledge of what I had tells me what I can obtain, what I will claim by obliterating the Temple Mercenaries. I don't make Unnecessary movements or babble Unnecessary words. I didn't surrender that Life and those People and that Happiness unnecessarily. Everything I lost reminds me of what I **must** gain.

Every now and then, though, fragments of that abandoned training seep into my thoughts without my summons, the Words advising me like kindly Forefathers, confirming my strategy and my Convictions. The one phrase I do recall is clear and vivid, as Permanent as the image of uncomprehending Betrayal in Ares' gaze or of unforgiving Resentment in Baroona's last Embrace.

The only Words I clearly remember from my years as a Mercenary:

"Sacrifice Flesh

To break Bone."

* * *

Those last two lines are directly from somewhere in the manhwa. Somewhere.

Reviews are darling, as always.


	6. Formal

Prompt #26: Formal

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except the names of the random noblemen.

Set just after the King of Chronos' death, while the wisemen and councilmen are attempting to persuade General Icarus to take the throne. His response...

* * *

It is an accepted fact that different warriors observe different details during battle. There is a traditionally witty jibe (spoken only partly in jest) that accompanies the fact: that while each soldier must see everything he needs, a general need only see as much as all six regiments of his army.

Archers notice the distance, the wind, the potential hide-outs to nest in and serve as hidden, silent death; cavalry track the ground, the dips and muddy globs of earth, and judge the formation of the enemy, how easily they might be surrounded or driven apart. Soldiers, in general, see their opponents - their glory, if you like, and often enough, their next source of food. Weapons, armor, jewelry, gold - all these are pleasant but unimportant to a starved and wasted skeleton.

We generals, on the other hand, must not only perceive all these, but realize them swiftly enough that we may deliberate on the single most important order: whether or not to fight.

Troops are spared that nagging uncertainty; all fear or doubt is beaten out during training. But generals, officers- we must we know how to think as well as to fight, must know how to win as thoroughly as how to **lose**.

Retreat is temporary - a bid for time.

Defeat is **defeat**. Nothing else need be said.

And so it happens that while the archer strolls about town, noting unconsciously how favorable a position that cathedral window would be, or the cavalryman scowling at the pockmarked road that could so easily overturn a horse, or the off-duty soldier embroiled in a quarrel, as always; as all these people go about their days, the general strides into the city with conquest in mind. Secure the walls, station troops at the gates, corral the nobles that could arouse dissent, establish supply trains through the northwestern tributary- the list goes on and on.

I say these things because I am unfortunate enough to have suffered through training for all four, though my time as soldier and archer were thankfully brief stints. I say these things because it cannot be properly comprehended from the outside, this delicate complexity and interdependency that cripples or exalts an army.

You ask me now to serve as King of this land. You tell me, now, of the corruption and wickedness that stained the departed king's reign; you tell me, now, of my great accomplishments, the glory and adoration I have won with the masses, the talent and genius running thick as blood through my veins. You are so intent, now, to flatter me that perhaps you do not realize the man behind these remarkable happenings.

I am a general.

First and foremost and forever, I am a **general**. Now, what does that mean? To you, and to the people whom you shove under my iron wings, it means that I can never cease to serve the military. It is as I have spoken: I will, indeed, recognize and record each detail, but not in any way that might serve your schemes, Cornelius, nor support your fiery diatribes against taxation upon nobles, Sir Gellis. I will see everything, from the eyes of a general. I can agree with you in that I have no selfish prizes that I strive to claim; I have no interest in fraud and deceit of the common people for my own good. I expect the same of each of you, and wait breathlessly to be disappointed.

And I warn you, I have never tolerated misconduct within my ranks – cruelty, envy, ignorance, rage, mistrust, dissent, betrayal – these are things I will never permit. And I give the fairest warning, at this very moment, that any man who will challenge my word shall receive the swiftest affirmation, and my express thanks for acting as an example to discourage audacity in the rest of you.

I tell you these things not to frighten or threaten, nor to foreshadow my own reign – if I do accept your offer and you my warnings. I tell you this because of the last, most important aspect of my service as a general: I must impress upon as many of you as I can how absolutely **vital** communication and understanding will be. I want each of you to remember, now as you simper so sweetly at my feet, that you have placed no prince upon the throne, no aspiring lordling, no sagacious politician.

I do not care for those things, as I have discussed before. What I will spend my breath on is, again and again, communication. For it is paramount, I believe, in any army or government, for the organization to understand itself. If the regulations of a compact are vague and archaic, they will undoubtedly be contorted and abused until useless, and then cheerfully (yet inevitably) supplanted by anarchy.

If a country's ruler rains taxes and punishments and execution upon his subjects' heads without discussion or reason, these subjects may very logically assume this ruler suffers terribly from a grievous affliction, either of rampant sadism or senseless paranoia. In either case, the loyal subjects would be within their bounds of peasant duty – and brotherly mercy – to release him from that state of misery, in effect releasing him, too, from the common toils of life. Surprisingly, most kings are not appreciative of these acts of mercy, and prefer to keep both their head and the sacred crown upon it. I expect I shall not differ too greatly from previous rulers in that instance.

But now- you have heard all my words. You know what I present to you, my admonitions lay juxtapose to your own silver-tongued claims. I know full well from history what is expected of me, just as wholly as I know how a war should be won; and now I have laid before you my own expectations. If I accept this enticement, and take your polished armor and golden staff over my sword, then the responsibility falls upon all our shoulders. I have no interest in a throne of violence with sparkling, bejeweled deceit crowning my brow; I will not suffer to be painted an empty-headed puppet, tugged about by his own greed as much as the avarice of the white beards clustered behind him.

We stand on even ground at this moment, where both serve only to benefit from mutual cooperation and happy conciliation of aims. I leave you with no final answer – I expect my speech has birthed more sputtering and writhing serpents of dispute than I can even conceive. Let us retire, then, back to our nests that we may convene again, you with a final offer and I my equally final response.

I bid you, sirs and lords, rest well and long. For tomorrow's sunlight, either way our discussion goes, shall gleam on the crown of your new sovereign- pray it show gold, not crimson.

Good night.

* * *


	7. Letters

Prompt #37: Letters

Disclaimers: The gypsies were created by me, as well as the gourd and the Daraak mythology/theology. I wish Ryu Kum Chel would show more scenes of Baroona's backstory...

Warnings: Ares is a ridiculously cute bucket of cuteness in this. The only spoiler here is for him sending crapit pies to Ariadne as a gift.

* * *

Ariadne,

Hey! It's Ares! Uh, obviously, cause who else writes you letters? Well, maybe some other people; I don't really know. I don't mean that you're not getting other letters, because maybe – um – I bet you are. I mean, if I was other guys, I'd definitely send you letters. Yeah. But, I kinda hope you don't get a hundred amazing and prettily-written letters a day, though, cause mine are plain. I don't get a lot of time to write them…

I would, though. Write you more, I mean, if I had time, cause I know you find all this soldier stuff really cool, even though its actually not that great. I mean, yeah, battles and stuff are awesome, but marching everywhere takes **so** long! Like a couple weeks ago, a messenger came stumbling in the Temple fortress all stuttering and scared-like and said his master desperately needed our help with a rebellion. I heard somebody say this Lord guy's peasants got struck with a curse: all their tongues grew longer than their arms and split at the end like a snake's, so they couldn't talk anymore or act like normal humans. Oh, and apparently with the whole transformation came an appetite for human flesh.

Like…they were eating **each other**. (And trying to eat the Lord-guy, I guess?)

But don't get scared, ok? None of that curse is real (I'm pretty sure); a bunch of the guys just made it up to freak out some new recruits in our regiment. Worked pretty well, right? Haha. (I was never scared. Though I think maybe Gohu was for awhile…)

Anyway, we had to march straight out to help this noble guy cause he sent a whole wagon of treasure with his messenger to pay us. To get there fast, we marched the **whole** night and got to his place around lunchtime the next day.

The whole night! No dinner break, no sleeping, and no **light**, which really sucks when you doze off a bit while marching and sleep-walk-wander away from your regiment…and end up slipping into a muddy, slimy river you couldn't see cause of the darkness…and then getting chased out of that river by a crocodile that you **still** couldn't see even when it was chasing you cause of the freaking darkness!

A crocodile! I didn't even know we had those in Chronos!

And I find my way back to the guys after, like, two hours of sneaking around, trying not to get shot by my own archers – that one guy, with the pointy beard and squiggly eyebrows? He almost nicked my ear with an arrow and I'm damn sure he saw my helmet. What an asshole! – anyway, I got back and I told them what happened and Michael just stares at me all blank-like (he has such a dumb expression on his face all the time! How do his enemies take him seriously?) and he says, "Ares. Crocodiles are nocturnal."

I'm all- what the hell is that supposed to mean! Seriously! Like knowing that beforehand would've helped me **not** fall into the river and get the whole right side of my uniform drenched! That guy says the weirdest stuff sometimes.

Back to the point: we march and march and march and I'm all ready to kick some snake-monster ass (crocodiles and snakes are…related, I think?) and the captain orders the first regiment forward and – job accomplished. No fighting for us, not at all.

Whaaat?! I was **so** mad! All we did was parade through town a couple times, looking big and tough and badass, but **no** battle or cannibals or anything. I didn't see one freaking garden snake and I checked – the people's tongues were totally normal.

Lame, lame, lame. Soldiering really isn't all that interesting a lot of the time. You have to wait so long to get there, then to get orders, then to get into position, then to **finally** do something! At least I get to catch up on sleep, I guess.

Oh! But there was one really cool group that visited the Temple fortress. I don't remember what they were called, but they were some sorta travelling gypsy group from the wilderness out towards Daraak. I wish you could've seen them, Ariadne! It was amazing. They didn't even look like real people – their skin was blank, white like snow and shiny like ice, but they decorated themselves in this awesome paint. It was like, instead of water, they bathed in rainbows all the time! Except they must've splashed around a lot in the baths cause the rainbow streaks were all bent into swirls and twirls and whirls; I got dizzy just looking at one guy's arm. And the colours they used, oh man, it wasn't like any tattoo I've ever seen! Nope, they went all out – something about connecting to nature and offering their bodies as a sacrifice to Her glory. Lemme tell you, they sure had me convinced: I wouldn't have been surprised if I had walked outside and the whole world had dried up into brown and grey. I think, for a night, they stole the sun's shine and the stars' dizzy sparkle and the grass's bright green life from every single blade.

(To tell you the truth, the sky did look a little dull the next day, so they must've been selfish and kept some of its blue for themselves.)

The gypsies couldn't talk very well – in our language, at least. They jabbered back and forth at each other like those annoying black birds that sit on the roof or the tree next to your window – you know, the ones that wait till you're falling asleep and then squawk and wail so loud that you would go strangle them, but from the sounds they're making, someone probably beat you to it. Anyway, even though we couldn't really talk to them, we didn't need to. They were **really** good at showing us what they meant (I guess from travelling to so many places). By the end of the day, even us mercenaries were 'talking' to each other by pointing and sweeping our arms around and making twisty faces. And lots of laughing- the gypsies liked to laugh and didn't mind us laughing right along with them.

They thought we were pretty weird, but awesome, too (I think), cause a bunch of boys got the gypsies to trade with them. The mercenaries gave helmets and knives and food stuff to get their gypsy paint. Speaking of food and gifts! Um, I asked Sunbae about sending letters and gifts and all that to you, and he told me I was "a completely oblivious fool" to send you crapit pies. Sorry! Gohu said it would be fine- last time I take his advice on presents! To make up for it, I wrote this super-long letter and I got you a better gift.

It's not gypsy paint because I didn't know if your dad (or Helena – by the way, does she still hate me?) would let you wear it. Besides, your skin's already nice-looking so I wouldn't want it to be covered up. Uh…I hope Helena doesn't kill me for saying that, cause I meant it to be a good thing. Like, your skin's really smooth and healthy and bright and pretty – but – it's not like I've seen that much of it – um – not more than she has – or – I dunno – crap. You know what I was trying to say…

Don't let her beat me up again, please.

Right- the gift! Sunbae said it should be something thoughtful and emotional (and pretty), which confused me for awhile, but I got this awesome idea the last night the gypsies stayed with us. I really hope they come again sometime. So, they threw a big party festival celebration and our captains let us go- nobody could sleep anyway with all their singing and clapping and jingling. So one gypsy pulls out this crazy wooden thing, like a big brown gourd the size of his torso, except with strings attached over the hollow cup part. All the circles of dancing gypsies (and drunk mercenaries, hehe) kinda glanced over… and slowed down… and then watched the gourd-guy, staring at him like he was a powerful, glorious priest!

So I'm thinking- whatever, it's a cool-looking instrument, what's the big deal? I lean over to talk to Baroona and he's **frozen**. My heart stopped for a beat: I swear, he looked as stiff as a corpse and had that same glazed, distant expression that dead people do. Scared the crap outta me. Baroona's a pretty cool guy, right, cause he doesn't get that upset- not like Michael does sometimes, when he goes all death-rampage-massacre-y. But that night, I'm telling you, Baroona was just… it was freaky. He was staring so hard at the gourd that I thought it'd probably shatter from the pressure. Man.

Anyway, so I'm all worried and confused and "hey, what's wrong, what is it?" and, without even looking away from the instrument, he whispers some word. I didn't recognize it and I can't remember it – the gypsy name for the gourd, I think. (Romhwuoasomething… I really don't know and I don't want to ask him about it again, not so soon after that night.) But I kept pestering him about it at the party and he finally starts talking, really quiet and quick, like he doesn't want to miss anything.

He says the gourd is more than an instrument – it's like a record of **souls**. In Daraak, he told me, each soul has its own 'timbre' – which is a fancy word for sound or feel, I guess. He didn't explain that part as much. So the soul is connected to the body, and that's why people talk and sing and laugh differently. When people die, their soul goes somewhere or other (he was vague on this part, too, but it's not important). But this gourd thing is made of a special, rare, blessed wood that holy gypsy-ancients can use to, like…keep part of the soul? It's hard to explain. The gypsies use these little chips of bone to sound the strings, but the bone chips aren't animal bone – they're made from other gypsies' skeletons. And the strings? They're made of dead people's hair, usually, sometimes the muscle or flesh (creepy!). So the strings are hooked onto the instrument by these pegs and can be taken off and switched out to 'remember' different people by listening to their soul.

Crazy, right?! But I have to admit it was pretty amazing to watch, cause this main guy starts thrumming away with one bone chip, then while he was playing notes way high at the top, people standing on the side switched out bottom strings. As he played back down, the sound shifted a little bit every couple minutes with the string change. And every now and then, he'd play this really long rush of music and let the song drift into the air. While it faded, he'd pick up a different bone chip and then go back to strumming. You'd think the bones wouldn't make a difference in the sound, but they really did.

So weird.

But I don't have very much time left to write (it's taken me so long to write this already!) so I'll tell you about the gift now. I don't know how long this'll take but Baroona said he'd help me once we retired. So I'm going to buy one of those gourds and then I'm going to ask Helena to save your hair after you get it cut- oh, and some of your favorite old dresses, cause Baroona said well-loved clothes work too. Then I'll put my hair and your hair and your dresses and my Temple uniform as strings. Maybe they'd let me use part of my helmet instead of bone…I dunno what to do for that just yet. But once its made, the Rhuhuamao-gourd-thing is going to be the most beautiful-sounding gourd ever, okay? I promise. I'm sure our souls are going to sound awesome and fantastic and perfect together…especially yours. And your hair will look really pretty, like always.

Oh, and if I die, during battle or something, I told the guys to get my body so they can make the gourd for you later. That way you can remember me forever and stuff, if you want to.

Even though it'll take awhile, I hope you like this gift – and I hope it makes up for the crapit pies. Remember to save your hair, ok?

Gotta go,

Ares

* * *

What a cutie.

Reviews are cute too, yea? Haha. ^^


	8. Butterfly

Prompt #10: Butterfly

Disclaimer: None of mine. Boys and girls all belong to Ryu Kum Chel.

Warnings: Some language.

* * *

A long time ago, when Ares still tried to play with the village children, he heard from a girl (from **his** girl) that love was like butterflies. The girl, **his** girl (or at least she was for a little while), said that when in love, everything seemed like butterflies – light and fluttery and exciting, and so, so pretty.

He smiled and told her, told **his** girl (or at least he thought she was), how smart she was to say that, and how right. Because with her, he felt weightless and restless and she was so, so pretty that they must be in love.

Then she rejected him and he forgot her words, his head stuffed with Kiron's lessons instead of her whispers.

But for some reason, he did remember that metaphor at odd times throughout his life: when the torchlight and shadows skittered over the enemy ranks like writhing red and black fish, when the stormy wind caught the sails and buffeted them like great white wings of a guiding angel, and when Baroona and Michael staggered back to the barracks, drunk, horny, and he remained alone, tracing the woodgrain of the table with an idle finger.

"Hey, kid, what's wrong with you tonight?" Sunbae nudged his shoulder, then took a seat across the table.

"Nothing. Just… I'm just really confused."

"Well, shit. If our little genius here is confused, we're all screwed."

"Sunbae!" Ares scowled, crossing his arms over his chest in pouting indignation.

"Sorry, sorry," the man said without any trace of remorse. "Now, what's got you mixed up?"

"Well…actually…you'd be a good person to ask. Sunbae, love – is it – is it like butterflies? Is that what it feels like? Just like that? Nothing else?"

Sunbae laughed. "Love, huh? Why did you think an old soldier like me would be a good person to ask?"

"Cause you **are** so old! You've had a really long time to fall in love, so you must have been, with somebody, sometime, right?"

"You're a real idiot sometimes."

"C'mon, answer the question!" Ares smacked his palms down on the table. His earnest look finally compelled Sunbae to drop the jokes.

"Why are you asking about that?"

"I told you – I'm confused."

"You think you're in love?" Sunbae guessed.

"Well…I dunno…cause…it's not like butterflies."

He took a swig of beer, then shrugged. "So what's it like?"

"It's…like…" Ares frowned, trying to find words for warmth in him.

It was like she was beautiful, but lots of girls are beautiful. It was like she was innocent, but lots of girls are innocent, and she was sweet and kind, but lots of girls are sweet and kind. It was like her hair always fell perfectly and her voice always sang and he never wanted to stop looking. It was like she just walked out of the sun, so bright and golden and dazzling that the sight of her burned into his mind. Her smiling afterimage stayed with him that night and the morning after and the next afternoon, right up to the minute that he saw her again. She was made of light: her hair glowed, her skin shone, and her heat constantly scorched him, leaving his cheeks flushed, palms sweaty, breath short. It was like he loved her warmth, her smile, her laugh, her joy, but mostly, it was like he loved her.

"Well…not like butterflies," Ares repeated with a solemn nod. Sunbae smiled and laughed again, then raised his cup in a toast.

"Not like butterflies."

* * *

Uh, yeah. Just random AriadneAres fluff...it happens. xD Very belated celebration of Ares waking up? YAY.


	9. Light

Prompt #39: Light

Disclaimer: De nada.

Warnings: Vague spoilers for Michael, like usual.

* * *

"How did they turn out so differently?"

"Who?"

"Ares and Michael, of course! They came to the mercenaries at the same time, enlisted in the same regiment, both were legendary warriors–"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"It–"

"So they both could fight- doesn't mean anything. You're asking the difference between sunlight and flames. They both give off light, don't they? Shouldn't they be the same? Doesn't matter that one's the source of all life. Doesn't matter that, without restraint, the other will consume and destroy everything it finds. Cause they've both got light, huh?"

"…sorry."

"Idiot."

* * *


	10. Never

Prompt #48: Never

Disclaimer: mhm.

Warnings: Language, violence, louder hints of yaoi.

* * *

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

He stalks in the room like a beast, all fangs and claws and gleaming predator eyes. Behind him, the open doorway lets in the night; the darkness follows the boy like a princely train, rich velvet adorned with jewels of torchlight. With all the embellishments, his eyes only look more feral, an unwelcome slash of white against black.

"Why would you pull a stunt like that?"

His words and presence demand attention so indignantly – so pointlessly, Baroona thinks, as if the modest room held anything else to look at. And even if it did, he hadn't lost enough blood yet to make the mistake of turning his back to a predator.

"Did you forget what I promised?"

The footsteps thud against the wooden floor like a dying heartbeat. When the pulse ceases, he's standing in front of the bed and Baroona remains still, waiting. He reaches out and his fingers drift like wind-tossed sand across Baroona's cheek.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you."

He leans closer. The quiet malice, always hidden by the grace of his movements, is lying naked in those bright eyes.

"I'll **never** let anyone hurt you."

Baroona wants to say 'I get it', say 'I heard you', say 'I hate you', but at the bottom of that slippery slope of insolence is nothing but a pit of snakes. Instead, he breathes in the boy's whisper and tries to remember the taste that belongs with this scent, this warm, salty musk of a murderer.

"Isn't that what I told you?"

Of course it is. Baroona easily remembers – both the taste and the promise. But the silence draws a frown from the boy and the hand on his face is suddenly gone. The swing's too quick to track in the darkness; knuckles collide with Baroona's jaw and the crack of bone against bone is flat and ugly, like the bruise will be tomorrow.

"Don't forget it again."

He shuts the door gently when he leaves, and never once does he look back or catch the smile on Baroona's face.

"What a lying bastard."

The smile is faint, along with a sigh that stumbles into dizzy laughter. Maybe he'd lost more blood than he thought. He leans back against the wall to wait out the fatigue and closes his eyes. The only sensations now are the stink of bloodshed and the warmth left from the blow.

"You won't protect me from yourself."

* * *

After months of persistent badgering, I've finally gotten my best friend reading Ares. xD So use this success story as inspiration and go out and recruit as many as you may! Heh.

And to those already in worship of this manhwa - write some fanfics! PM if you have written one, or if you've found other Ares fics.


	11. Mistakes

Prompt #44: Mistakes

Disclaimer: Nope, still haven't won the rights.

Warnings: Smoking, swearing, and slash, oh my! xD

* * *

Michael had found a new hideout for their leisure time, a quiet alcove that faced away from the setting sun. He bragged that it was perfect for warm, lazy afternoons, so Baroona answered offhand that he'd check it out. He also boasted that it was perfect for dusk because there, you couldn't see the sun fall or watch the colors spark and dwindle. There, the only evidence of passing time was the wispy shadows thickening and clustering around the bare torchlights. He claimed that this new side was a far more interesting perspective. Baroona thought it disgustingly ironic of Michael, but answered only, "Fine. I'll come."

And of course, Michael had to be right. The place was an amazing find - shade easing the heat slightly (but not enough to discourage lethargy) and seclusion just sneaky enough that Baroona didn't mind Michael's sweaty lips against his neck. In fact, Baroona's position encouraged the warm kisses, sprawled out on the sun-warmed earth with his head tilted to the side. Mind slow and muggy, he amused himself with his cigarette, watching through half-lidded eyes as the curling strands shriveled and disappeared under the unrelenting sun.

Then, Ares skidded around the corner. Panting and flushed, he burst into their silence like the blinding light of curtains cast aside. He threw a quick, guilty glance over his shoulder before stumbling to a halt. The distraction gave Michael enough time to shift onto his back, lying next to Baroona rather than curled into him.

Satisfied with the apparent lack of pursuers, Ares looked back to the pair, wearing a shit-eating grin the way most people wear a medal of honor. He took a second to evaluate the little nook, nod cheerfully at Michael's half-hearted glare, and then saunter closer.

"What're you guys doing?" he stood up on his toes, peering over and around the two as if his investigation might reveal a hidden scarf they had been secretly knitting. Baroona had long since realized that Ares appreciated the luxury of laziness only in certain moods. Today, evidently, he wasn't in one.

Baroona exhaled a gauzy cloud of grey, and glanced sideways at Michael. When the other remained stoic as a statue, Baroona took charge, languidly answering the blonde: "Getting into less trouble than you."

Ares rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too. I been getting into **fun**, not trouble."

Michael just snorted at that, and Baroona thought he couldn't have said it more derisively himself. Ares stuck out his tongue at the pair, but flopped down to join them anyway, gangly limbs collapsing to the ground like a dropped marionette.

"But really," he insisted, "what're you guys doing here?"

Michael sighed quietly, more of a hiss, and pushed himself up to sit eye-level with Ares. Before replying, he reached over Baroona for the half-empty cigarette box and pulled one out, nodding a silent thanks to Baroona (even though he hadn't asked and Baroona hadn't agreed). Spitting out his characteristic stalk of grass, Michael said, "Smoking", and slid the cigarette between his lips.

"Lighter?" he mumbled at Baroona, wholly ignoring a squawk of disgust from Ares.

"When did **you** start smoking?!"

"Mm...'s here somewhere..." Baroona patted his pockets slowly, working through them in no rush.

"Hey! You don't smoke - er, I didn't think you smoked - why are you - "

"Found it..." Baroona pulled the lighter from his back pocket and handed it over.

"Michael!!"

"What?" Michael snapped, finally heeding the blonde's (progressively louder and shriller) cries of protest. He frowned at Ares in vague annoyance, then flicked open the lighter. Quick as the burst of flame, Ares lunged forward and snapped the metal shut.

"The hell are you - "

"The hell are **you** doing!" Ares tried to snatch the lighter away, but Michael caught the thieving hand easily with his free one.

"Trying to light this, actually."

"Yeah!" Ares leapt on the words like they were a confession of murder. "I mean, no! I mean, why! That stuff smells like shit - no offense, Baroona - so why are you smoking? Already have to put up with one person stinking like that - sorry, Baroona - so I don't want you starting, got it?"

Michael scowled around the cigarette, then flicked the lighter back on. "Deal with it."

One hand caught, the other needed for leverage, Ares only had one option - and being Ares, he took it. He growled and lunged forward, just evading the little flame, and grabbed the unlit cigarette with his teeth. Naturally, he went all-out and bit down on the middle of the cigarette rather than the end to secure his grip; his lips nearly touched Michael's. Michael's head jerked back in violent whiplash, and Ares easily retrieved the little stick, grinning like a puppy who had just beaten his master at tug-o-war. Of course, Ares then realized what was in his mouth and spat it out with a childish 'puh!' of disgust, sticking out his tongue and gagging.

While the blonde threw a fit, Baroona tried to catch Michael's attention with a questioning look. To no avail – Michael was busy running a thumb over his lips, very slowly, like he was searching for something. Baroona said nothing, because he couldn't tell from this angle whether Ares had actually kissed him or not.

"Now that we got **that** settled," Ares announced smugly, apparently recovered from the cigarette, "wanna get off your lazy ass and come spar with me?"

Michael was on his feet before Baroona could say a word - and after he recognized the keen, beastlike hunger in Michael's narrowed gaze, Baroona didn't **want** to say a word. Michael had found his target; distracting him now would be a fool's deathwish.

Ares crowed, "Knew it!" with a brilliant smile, and took off laughing, Michael following (a little too) close behind.

---

Michael showed up after sunset, sweaty but unsatisfied. Baroona managed to wander to his feet and ask if anyone was nearby before Michael had him against the wall with clutching hands and desperate lips.

They didn't discuss the sparring or the smoking that night, but for the next week, Michael smoked at least three cigarettes in Ares' presence every day. Finally, Baroona complained about the drain on his money (and didn't mention out loud that Ares had Ariadne), so Michael reluctantly returned to grass stalks (and to Baroona, though he had never really left).

* * *

I'm still addicted to Michael, unfortunately, horny bastard that he is. So, please, please be a considerate reader and review. By the way, if you'd like a certain topic, feel free to request it, too.

(AND WRITE SOME ARES FANFICS! xP)


	12. Knowledge

Prompt #36: Knowledge

Disclaimer: yada yada yada.

* * *

Michael is five years old and, like most boys his age, invincible. Lavished with his nurse's petting and cooing, supported by the other children's wide-eyed and jaw-dropped admiration, he knows that he is undeniably the best five-year-old in the world. His father's dogs all whimper and lie down at his feet, and the servants never spare a moment in bowing when he enters a room. Never once has the prince been refused, at least not without a kind smile and a laughing promise that he'll get it later, as long as he's patient.

So, being convinced totally of his superiority, Michael doesn't heed his nurse's gentle reminders. Instead of lessons that afternoon, he slips out through the stables and into the country road that trails away from their estate. He knows the way, has traveled it in carriages many a time, but almost finds himself doubting the path when it takes so very long to get to town. Almost doubting, but not quite, because Michael has never been wrong about things he knows.

He entered the town proudly, chin stuck into the air like his father's always was, and smirked at the first person he saw. Somehow, they didn't notice him and consequently didn't bow; it's strange, but their folly, and Michael shrugged it off. Until the next person ignored him as well, and the next, and next, so many that he began to think he must've been cursed by some stray witch masquerading as a crow; he must be invisible to these poor people.

To test his theory, he grabbed at the coat of a nearby man and tugged, letting out a shrill 'Sir!' to get his attention. Without turning, the man shoved him off, and Michael stumbled back into the main of the street. Before he could demand an apology, a thunder of hooves stampeded over his words, drowning out a shout of warning from behind. Michael turned too late.

Thankfully, his nurse said later with teary eyes, someone recognized the prince and brought him back home, or he might've died there on the street. His vision keeps wavering, his head and shoulder ache, and his trembling is not making anything better. Not even his nurse's soft words of compassion can make this better, because Michael realizes, for the first time in his life, that she can be wrong. He is not safe now, nor ever was, only hidden away from the reality of danger.

* * *

Completely AU, as far as I know, just a quick thing that popped into my head.

Working on UruruwuvsRikion4eva's request next! And I think I might go back through and edit these drabbles...some of them are a little weak upon rereading.


	13. Temptation

Prompt #79: Temptation

Disclaimer: You know the drill.

Warnings: Language & yaoi! Who doesn't love that combination...

For UruruwuvsRikion4eva - sorry this fic ended up so long. They wouldn't stop talking!

Also, this takes place the evening after the meeting on onemanga dot com/Ares/23/09/. Witness Rikion drive Genesis to murder in thirty seconds flat! ^^

* * *

"This is imperative, boy!" the old man thundered like a cannon, voice shaking the table. Apparently unmoved, his grandson remained seated, rubbing at his ear with one hand.

"Rikion!" his grandfather growled, jabbing a finger at the young man's face. "Do you hear me!"

"How could I not?" Rikion drawled, then let out a little sigh. He put on a very firm and unmistakable scowl, but complied with the man's wishes by rising from his chair. After a long, languid stretch – and another lethal glare from the old man – Rikion sighed again and headed for the door of the cabin.

"Still don't see why you can't do it yourself…" he grumbled into the wooden door.

"What are you mumbling, boy!?"

"Nothin', don't worry about it," Rikion answered quickly, and closed the cabin door behind him. "Jeez. There better be some damn good fights for me to put up with this…"

Glancing over his shoulder, he could see his grandfather through the porthole, pacing around the table like a madman, already plotting Chronos' imminent demise. Not that Rikion was particularly opposed to starting war with Chronos, but all these extra tricks – like getting sent to sound out their lead general and determine his ability – were frankly annoying. And of course, Rikion reflected with a frown, the old geezer couldn't do it himself because it'd be way too suspicious. Not only did he lack tact – a family trait – but he also had little wit with words. At least Rikion could claim to have a bit of that.

Following crisp directions from a couple Chronosian soldiers, Rikion arrived at General Icarus' cabin. He wavered outside the door for half a minute, wondering if the soldiers had pulled one over on him. There were no guards posted outside the door – or anywhere near by, for that matter. Then again, Icarus seemed like a strange guy.

He reached for the doorknob and then paused at a familiar sound. That was definitely Icarus' voice coming from inside the cabin. Without further hesitation, Rikion pushed the door open, and found himself in an intensely awkward situation.

It really wasn't his fault.

One – what the hell kind of general leaves his cabin door unlocked? Two – the hell kind of general doesn't have a meeting room separated from his private quarters? And three – what the fuck was he doing with Genesis?

All three men froze, Rikion in the doorway, the Chronosians in two chairs pulled close enough that their knees touched, Icarus' hands on his companion's face. Absolute, dead, and total silence reigned. Nearly an eternity later, Icarus finally spoke.

"General Rikion?"

"General Icarus!" he replied instinctively, brain still racing to comprehend all these surprises. "I – didn't, uhm – come back when there's not a – you – "

Icarus sat back in his chair, hands falling to his lap. His companion quickly followed suit, albeit with a furious blush and even more furious glare at Rikion. He could almost imagine Genesis barking at him like a proper pet. _The guard-dog and his master, huh? I've seen stranger couples, I guess…_

"Did you need me for something?" Icarus broke the silence again, a very faint smile on his lips. "General Rikion?"

"Ah, well – " Rikion cleared his throat. "Yeah. I did. But it's nothing so fun as that."

Predictably, Genesis blushed at the beyond blatant innuendo, but made no move to launch himself at the intruder. Yet. Meanwhile, Icarus simply nodded and murmured, "I'd imagine not."

Hand on the doorknob, Rikion paused. "What?"

"I said – " Icarus spoke with utmost nonchalance, "I'd imagine not."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" He couldn't decide if the Chronosian was just saying words to sound cool and enigmatic, or if he was actually insulting Rikion's masculinity.

Icarus looked up at Rikion with an infuriatingly blank expression. "You have a wife. Don't you?"

"Ah – " Rikion blinked, then frowned. "You really wasted your time researching **me** instead of the enemy?"

"I was invited."

"…hah?"

"To the wedding?"

"…" Rikion cleared his throat again, crossing his arms over his chest. "But you didn't come."

"Unfortunately so. I couldn't make it."

"Huh."

"So – " Icarus reached behind him to retrieve two cups of wine, "a belated congratulations on your happy union."

On impulse, Rikion took a step forward and accepted the cup. He clinked it against the Chronosian's and drank to the blessings. After taking the obligatory swallow, Icarus leaned over to Genesis and said a quiet something into the sulking man's ear. He looked surprised – and maybe a little offended – but Icarus shook his head before Genesis could verbally refuse.

Hastily, Genesis rose and bowed to Icarus, then turned toward the cabin door.

"I need to get by," he said tersely, and Rikion couldn't resist the temptation.

"And here you are lecturing me on manners," Rikion shook his head in mock-disappointment. "You know, Icarus isn't the only man you gotta say please to."

If Genesis had been blushing before, his face now burst into flames – along with his temper. Rikion tried to step back as the man whipped his sword out, but he hit the tight confines of the cabin. Thankfully, Icarus was on his feet and between them before any fight could progress. One hand on Genesis' shoulder, Icarus used his other to guide the sword back into its sheath, murmuring something low that Rikion couldn't catch. Genesis growled something back but stalked out of the room without another glance at the offending Silonican.

Rikion couldn't help grinning as the door slammed shut. "No goodbye kiss?"

With a quiet sigh, Icarus returned to his seat and gestured for Rikion to take one as well. He did so, and waited in smug silence as Icarus shuffled through a drawer to find a cigarette.

"Do you mind?" Before lighting it, he looked up at Rikion, who shook his head.

"It's your cabin."

"And you're my guest," Icarus deflected the answer with a smile.

Rikion rolled his eyes and rephrased: "No. I don't mind."

Another quiet lull passed between them as Icarus lit the cigar, and inhaled and exhaled the first haze of smoke.

"Surprised **your** wife doesn't nag about that," Rikion nodded toward the box of cigars.

"Oh, he tried," Icarus said, still smiling. "But enough about Genesis. Why did you need to speak to me?"

"Yeah…" Rikion licked his lips, trying to figure out how the hell he could dance around the subject. "Had a time trying to find your cabin, that's for sure – I kept looking for a parade of guards and soldiers, but…"

"But alas, I have none."

"You don't think that's a little suicidal in your position?" Rikion frowned.

"I appreciate your concern for my well-being," the man paused to draw in and push out another mouthful of smoke, "but I assure you that I'm more than well-protected."

Rikion snorted. "Kinda cocky, aren't you?"

"Hm? Oh, no, I didn't mean that **my** skills were sufficient to defend myself," Icarus corrected with a little smile. "I have guards. I'd just rather not present a bulls-eye for invaders – or unexpected intruders." Rikion hastily looked down at his drink. "But if you had any sort of malicious intent, this cabin would be suffocated with blades eager for your blood."

"That so…" Rikion swirled the wine around in his cup, pensively studying the dark liquid. "And how do you know my intents aren't malicious?"

Icarus shrugged. "Maybe malicious wasn't the best word. Lethal? Threatening? Murderous? Regardless, I think I can handle a few sex jokes."

"I didn't come here to make jokes."

"I'd hope not." Icarus nodded, taking a drag on his cigarette. "But I can also handle little boys sent on errands by their prying grandfather."

Rikion colored immediately, half-rising from his seat. "I'm no child, Icarus."

"And I no fool," he returned sharply, though without moving an inch. "So we can approach each other on level ground. I know why Silonica has joined us in this war and hence why you're sitting here now."

"I didn't come for that!" Rikion interjected, a little desperately. This man was too arrogant, but for good reason. Before Rikion even had a chance to hint at the subject, he'd guessed it outright. Of course, Rikion couldn't let the Chronosian inflate his ego any higher, so a quick lie was in order. "And the old man's got nothing to do with it."

"Oh?" The smoke rushed out from his mouth, framing the single word. Unconsciously, Rikion shifted the cup to one hand and started fiddling with his hoop earring, a very old nervous habit.

"That's right."

"Then I apologize," Icarus tipped his head politely. "So what's this about?"

"The – ah – " Rikion took a quick swig of wine, playing for each and every extra second. "The Temple Mercenaries."

Icarus grinned around his cigarette.

"Why'd you bring them?" Rikion pressed the topic, for lack of anything better to say.

"You can't figure it out?" he replied, just mocking enough that Rikion **had** to scowl at him. "The strategy I discussed with you and your grandfather is one that will require a large amount of soldiers, as we need to divide into two fleets – one to stay and construct the fake ship, of course. It would necessitate bringing far too many Chronosian soldiers for me to feel comfortable about my country's safety while I'm gone. So, I hired extra hands."

Rikion said nothing to the childishly simple explanation. The two men observed each other in silence and smoky shadows, both knowing the bluff had been called but neither willing to take the next step. Finally, when Icarus ground out the end of his cigarette, he spoke.

"So, General Rikion. Does that answer your question?"

Still toying with his earring, Rikion gave a short, surly nod. He felt like a guilty child caught with cookie in hand. Now he either had to sit through a lecture or stand through a beating.

Icarus narrowed his eyes and said more quietly, "Was that really what you wanted to ask?"

"Yeah, of course, I – I just, uh – " Rikion swallowed hard, then shook his head. "No. It wasn't. Stop asking questions you already know the answer to. It's annoying."

With a shrug, Icarus affected an innocent expression, but that soon lost ground to one of his sly fox smiles. Rikion snorted and looked away. Finding a table to his right, he set the empty cup down there.

"More wine?"

"No. I'm fine."

Something like anxiety rose in Rikion at the awkward silence again claiming the room. He tugged on his earring a little too hard in vexation, and let out an involuntary hiss at the surprising pain.

"Careful with that. You'll make yourself bleed."

"Look, I **do** have a wife. I don't need another one," Rikion scoffed.

"Do you love her?"

The sudden question, stupidly nonchalant, threw Rikion off completely. He looked at the man, blinked, opened his mouth, and still had difficulty finding an answer. Finally, he forced himself to laugh and say the truth.

"The marriage was arranged."

"I assumed as much." Icarus nodded. "Do you like her, at least?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I don't know. Yet. We only spent one night together."

"Is that how you judge people, then?" Icarus leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, still wearing his fox smile. "On their…'nights'?"

Without meaning to, Rikion answered the challenge and also sat forward.

"Yeah, that's right. Their nights and their minds." He faked a smile. "And she didn't have much of that one."

"Unlike you?"

"What are you getting at?" Rikion snapped in impatience.

"What are you doing in my cabin?" Icarus returned without pause.

"Well, shit, Mister General – sorry for wasting your time." Rikion pushed himself to his feet. "Guess that's your way of dismissing me, huh?"

"I don't know about that… Genesis is probably still guarding the door, waiting for you to emerge. And I don't think I could get there in time to stay his hand."

Rikion glanced at the door then swore under his breath. This guy might be bluffing, but if he was telling the truth, that would be a very bad situation. Sure, Rikion could take Genesis in a fight, but diplomatic relations and all…

"Well, why don't you just call him back in for that tryst I interrupted?" Rikion had to smirk at his own cleverness.

"Because." Still slouched forward in the chair, robe slid practically off one shoulder, Icarus smiled. "You're already here."

Rikion stood motionless. He stared at the man, trying to find something else in those light eyes and barely curved lips. Frankly, he just couldn't believe that Icarus, first general and leader of the people of Chronos, was up for a quickie.

"Is that an invitation?" he asked slowly, wariness loud in his voice.

"Sounded more like a statement," Icarus' smile widened, "to me."

Suddenly, Rikion burst into laughter. The explosion startled Icarus for the first time that evening; he sat back in his chair, not losing his little smile. Rikion shook his head, grinning away at the Chronosian and how close he'd been to taking the bait.

"How stupid do you think I am, Icarus?" he chuckled again. "The minute I touch you, Genesis – or your apparently omniscient guards – will burst through that door and all hell will break loose on my head. Look, so maybe what I was coming to do wasn't the cleanest work, but that bullshit is below dirty."

Speech made, laughter finished, Rikion headed for the door. As he predicted, Icarus made no move to stop or follow him. He remained wrapped up in his chair and the lingering clouds of smoke.

"General Rikion?"

He paused with the door an inch open and looked back. _Still hasn't dropped that fox smile. Asshole._ "Yeah?"

"Make sure to close the door behind you."

"…yeah," Rikion made a sound of disbelief and stepped outside. As per the man's request, he yanked the door shut behind him.

No Genesis awaited him, nor any lurking guards. Unbeknownst to Rikion, Icarus had indeed sent Genesis back to his own room – but Icarus was never one to correct hasty and insulting assumptions with a fiery diatribe of his own. He would let Rikion puzzle it out, and if the Silonican never quite made it to the right conclusion, well… His loss.

* * *

Hehe. That was too much fun to write. xP I may have to do a sequel drabble or something...

(And I think my favorite line in this whole thing is '...hah?')


	14. Future

Prompt #27: Future

Disclaimer: HEY, I own something here! Melia, the wifey, is mine. Rikion + everything else... Nope.

Warnings: BIG BIG BIG spoilers for up to chapter 145 or so! Geh. Also, bad language~.

Also, this is another request fic for UruruwuvsRikion4eva. I know you just said 'a conversation', but...one thing led to another...

* * *

"I don't fucking believe this!" Rikion flung his weapon to the side, ignoring the clang of blade against stone. Letting out a wordless snarl of frustration, he slammed his fist into the wall. The dull ache in his hand only added to the throbbing pain all over his body. But physical pain was something he could handle – the embarrassment, however, **that** embarrassment that didn't even deserve to be called a battle… It was intolerable. Chest heaving with ragged breath and blood pounding in his ears, he could barely hear his men's pleas.

"General Rikion, your injuries–"

"–and get a healer for–"

"Please sit down–"

"–still have men, General, we only–"

"Enough!" Rikion finally barked out. And beaten dogs that they were, the whole pack shut right up, watching him now with wide eyes and eager ears. He needed them to stop looking at him, to grant just one minute for stupid, pointless fury and behavior absolutely not befitting a general of Silonica. But they wouldn't allow him that. They needed orders, directions and reassurance, and he didn't have the strength for that right now. How did Icarus manage it all so easily?

_But Icarus is dead._

His vision blurred and then darkened in a moment, like someone had decided to extinguish the sun. Rikion swayed into the wall, leaning his full weight against the stone, and three men rushed forward to help. He waved them off with one hand and a growl.

"Get out." When they paused, he took a shaky breath and clarified the order: "All of you, out. Go, gather your men, take a headcount, tend to them, go do something, something more productive than crowding around me like a bunch of old women!"

Most of the crowd vanished at that. A few tarried, one man helping him to find a chair (despite Rikion's initial resistance), another offering water. Rikion greedily gulped down half the bowl, then set to washing some of the blood from his face; his right eye was nearly blind with it. However, when the officers started up with soft words and gentle, nervous suggestions again, Rikion pointed them to the door.

"When the healer arrives, send him in," he gave a final command, hoarse voice cracking as he tried to maintain strength and volume. "No one else."

The great door to the hall thumped shut and silence finally fluttered down over the hall, Rikion imagined with the same exhaustion and relief he felt. With everyone gone, he let himself slump down in the chair with a groan. He bowed his head and, setting his elbows on his knees, pressed his palms to either side of his head to hold it together. That little pressure didn't assuage the pounding that threatened to halve his head like a dropped melon, but he couldn't help trying.

Warm blood from his ear trickled down his neck and shoulder; the cloth there felt stiff as wood from all the dried blood. He remembered the pain of the earring tearing through his lobe more than the actual event – who had yanked it or how or when, all blurred into the mind-consuming ache of his battered body.

Isiris had routed them. A complete and perfect victory for King Fucking Michael. And how would things have gone, he couldn't help but wonder, if he had challenged the boy at their first meeting, there on Icarus' ship, so long ago? When he was still an unknown mercenary, a lowly bug who refused to call Rikion by proper honorifics.

"Shit…" A wave of dizziness wiped out that train of thought like the tide devouring sand creations. No point pondering hypotheticals. What was he going to do, right **now**, with his people in danger? How could he even plan against strategies that underhanded? Using civilians that way – how could Rikion anticipate moves from a monster like Michael? If only he could talk to Icarus and –

"Oh, fuck," he rasped, voice shuddering as involuntarily as his body. _Icarus is dead_. Rikion tried to draw a breath, clear his head, but a metal vice crushed his chest and his hands wouldn't stop trembling against his skin and the endless pounding slammed against his skull and his vision tumbled into deeper and deeper darkness and he could not fucking breathe or think or breathe and –

"Rikion!"

The high sound split open his mind like a ray of light slicing through stormclouds. A soft pattering of slippers hurried across the floor and by the time he raised his head, Melia already stood in front of him, close enough to touch.

"They told me that – " she gasped out breathlessly; poor thing must've run all the way here, " – that the battle was lost – and – oh! Rikion, you're hurt!"

_Ever the brilliant woman_, he thought with a tired smile. Black spots drifted in and out of his vision, but he could still see her clearly enough: far younger than him, and so small and pale and clean, like a polished glass window. Her green eyes trembled, darting all over his bloody face and shivering body.

"…Rikion?" she whispered, and he forced himself to take a slow, long breath. Couldn't lose composure here. _Keep it together a few minutes, just to get her out._ But for some reason, even when he dropped them to his lap, his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"Yeah," he croaked, throat rebelling against the roars and battle cries of earlier today. "We lost."

"Oh…" her hands twisted against each other like anxious snakes, and he knew he'd said the wrong thing. "What – what does that mean? Isiris – are they going to – "

"No." He forcibly pushed out some air to make room for more. Fucking ridiculous, having to focus this much energy into regulating so simple a function. "We lost a battle, not the war."  
"But you're so hurt…"

"Well, that's what happens you almost die," Rikion snapped, and his wife's hands flew to her mouth with a gasp. "No – no, no, shit, it's fine – no, I didn't mean – "

"You almost died!"

"**No,** I meant – no, I'm fine – "

"But you aren't!" Without warning, the girl suddenly dropped to her knees and Rikion started forward, sure she'd fainted. He found her eyes wide open, however, and her sweet, round face set with determination. She reached out and took his hands in her own, though her tiny fingers could barely stretch enough to hold his sweaty palms.

"You can't die," Melia said softly. It sounded like a prayer coming from her lips – but that would make Rikion a god, and he was just a very tired and dirty and busted-up bag of blood and flesh.

Despite that fact, he squeezed her hands in return, and promised, "I'm not gonna die. Not by the hand of that bastard Michael, or any of his rabid dogs."

"You can't die," she insisted, as if he'd said nothing. To assure her, Rikion clenched tighter and leaned down so they looked at each other almost eye-to-eye.

"I know," he said with a little nod. "I know I can't. Icarus is already gone. If we fall as well, then…"

Melia bit her lip, looking honestly impatient with him. She seemed to want to speak, but instead looked away, fingers kneading anxiously into his hand. It…actually felt pretty nice, Rikion had to admit. A tiny firefly of pleasure amidst the blazing pain.

"That's not why!" she said suddenly. "Not because of Icarus or Silonica or Isiris, but – I – you can't leave yet. Please."

Rikion realized that this was the first real time they'd touched. For ceremony, they had clasped hands and danced at formal occasions, and yes, of course, they'd consummated their marriage. But truly, this was the first time she had **chosen** to touch him and the very first time he felt any desire to touch her back.

Grip firm on her wrists, he pulled her a little closer, just enough that he could press his lips to her smooth forehead. And if he left blood, from busted lips and broken noses – hell, her maids could wash it off.

"I'm not gonna leave you," Rikion told her, a small smile twisting the corner of his mouth. "So stop worrying about it. You're making **me** scared."

She looked up at him with bright, trusting eyes, and before she could speak, he kissed her forehead again, and again. And when she whispered 'thank you' under her breath, his small smile suddenly got very, very wide.

* * *

Because even the manliest men have panic attacks, and even the very strongest warrior needs a girl to come home to.

(Or a boy, but that's another story altogether...)


	15. Who

Prompt #94: Who?

Disclaimer: Ya ya ya.

Warnings: Language, and that's all, for once.

* * *

"Get down, asshole!"

"Yeah, we're trying to eat! Get away from our food!"

Various catcalls and howled insults followed the boy as he scampered over the table, half-tripping over plates and swerving drunkenly to avoid utensils chunked at his head. The scrawny kid hollered back at his assailants as he ran, ducking a cup this time and getting drenched in beer despite his effort.

If nothing else, Baroona had to applaud the kid's resolve. He'd kept this ploy going for almost five minutes without anyone managing to snag an ankle and drag him down. Unfortunately, the event was making all the C-ranks a little too raucous, so Baroona had been employed to settle the commotion.

With a quick push off the back of a chair, Baroona launched himself onto the table. He landed in front of the kid, who skidded to a halt, barely dodging another projectile from his fellow mercenaries.

"Alright, that's enough," Baroona said. He nodded to his left, obviously meaning for the runt to hop off. The scrawny kid had balls, however, and didn't move except to scrunch his nose in distaste.

"Who're you to order me around?"

"He's one of our instructors, dipshit!" someone shouted from below. "Get the hell down!"

"Huh." The punk looked Baroona over slowly, then put on a broad, toothy grin as he sauntered a step closer. "An instructor…that so?"

"Deimos, he'll kick your ass! Don't pick a fight, you idiot!"

Despite the boy's insolence, Baroona couldn't help smiling back at the little blonde beast. Had he not been able to see both the boy's eyes, Baroona could've sworn he was staring at a photograph.

"I was a friend of your dad's," Baroona said quietly. He was gratified to catch an uncertain flicker in the kid's eyes before his defenses went back up with a fake smile. "So…why don't you hop down and we'll have a little talk?"

The boy paused, then shrugged. "Sure. Don't worry, though – I wouldn't fight an old man like you, anyway."

Baroona sighed and followed the boy off the table, silently sending apologies to his old friend. Godson or not, this punk needed some sense beaten into him.

* * *

-happy wiggle- I've had this one in my brain for months now. Glad to finally get it out. ^^

Hmm. In case this fic confused you, lemme provide some extra information: Deimos and Phobos are twin sons of Ares and Aphrodite in Greek mythology. They are seen, respectively, as divine representations of Dread and Panic.

(Also, Baroona would make an amazing Temple instructor, I think. xP)


	16. FILLER!

MY DEAR READERS: this is one big author's note to you. I repeat, there is no Ares fic in this chapter – though my brain has been working on a Carnival drabble, my hands have been far too busy with college to do anything. Soon, soon. I swear.

As far as the lack of updates…yeah. College + I need to reread the entire series to get back into it + college again = no updates for you. However, finals are coming up in May, and after that, I will have time! So expect an update sometime soon.

To tide you over – and because I've been contacted by so many of you looking for Ares fics – here are some recs.

As most of you have discovered, hosts only me and one other Ares writer that I've found. (Correct me if I'm wrong.) The other author is Noontodusk and she's published three smut oneshots so far. However, livejournal has an entire community dedicated to Ares fanwork. HOORAY FOR LJ!

Noontodusk has her stuff crossposted there, but there are several other authors who aren't listed on FF. Indeed, my favourite Ares fanfic I've ever read (and my favourite Ares author) is on that community. Check it out at community . livejournal . com / crimsonroad. (FF isn't fond of me putting links into my chapters, apparently...) My personal fave is crimsonroad / 5336 . html, but there are plenty of great ones on there, as well as fanart, icons, and other bells and whistles. Maybe some day I'll post something on there, haha. So lazy…

Also, if you want to pimp Ares out to your friends, here's a handy-dandy post to do it with: kasugai-gummie . livejournal . com /53027 . html.

Three cheers for livejournal!

Speaking of bells and whistles, I've made a few Ares wallpapers of my own, so if you kids are interested, I can post those up somewhere for your use. PM me or mention it in a review to kick my butt into gear. This leads well into my favourite topic: reviews! DUDE I LOVE YOU GUYS. xD Thank you so much for reviewing, seriously, and sharing in the joy of Ares stuff. It makes my day every time I get a comment. Feel free to keep offering requests, but be aware that I may not take them. My mind is like a very fluttery, whimsical bird that darts from place to place; if I don't happen to pick up your breadcrumb, it's nothing personal.

I try to respond to each review with a PM, and you all should always feel free to PM me and glee about Ares or yell at me for not writing or whatever. A sidenote, though, to the anonymous reviewer who talked about slash pairings – if you're still hanging around, for the love, please drop me something to contact you with, because you raise very good points and I'd love to debate with you about those pairings. xP

To everyone else, much much love and thanks for your support. Hang in there! There'll be new stuff soon!


End file.
